Operation Watchtower
by GrayKnight3445
Summary: On July 16th 1946 the Allied forces launched their last ditch mission to cut the head off of the Nazi war machine by killing General Deathshead. To ensure its success they sent in best they had. Hundreds of paratroopers including a grizzled veteran from Mesquite, Texas, and one teenage butler dragging along a particular package more deadly than an A-Bomb.
1. Chapter 1

_"In my dream, I smell a barbecue. I hear children, a dog, and I see someone. I think I see someone. These things, none of it for me. I move by roaring engines, among warriors. We come from the night."_

Excerpt from Diary of Captain William J. Blazkowicz  
Dated: July 15th 1946  
17 Hours prior to commencement of Operation Watchtower

A brief but firm tap on his chest brought BJ out of his fitful slumber. He opened his eyes and his mind began filling the blanks. It was early morning, probably about five or six hundred judging by the bright sun rising from the horizon. Illuminated against it Blazko could see about a dozen of the jumbo bombers transporting a small regiments worth of American and British paratroopers to a small stretch of coastline the Baltic Sea facing Germany proper and their escort fighters.

"Eyes open Blazkowicz!" a raspy Scottish voice yelled over the roar of the six powerful engines keeping Blazko's own plane in the air. A firm grip on his shoulder forced him turn his head to face Airman Fergus Reid, pilot of Vulture One, the name of the plane whose co-pilot seat Blazko was currently napping in.

"You keep the look out!" he ordered. "I need to go for a piss!"

Blazko took a moment to look over the Scottish serviceman. Reid's face told him this was more than an answer to the call of nature. Judging by the sun rising behind him and the grim, determined frown Fergus had on it was all Blazko needed to know that they were almost at Objective Frostbite: Deathshead's personal castle and the source of the death machines that had allowed the nazi army to turn the steady allied advance into occupied Europe into a desperate holding action. For Fergus, this was a last chance to pretend to be human before he had to end that charade and prepare for the coming bloodbath the OSA predicted this was going to be.

Before Blazko could reply he heard the rough whistle of an artillery shell followed by the bang of a flak shell exploding. Both he and Fergus looked outside the canopy to see one of the jumbo bombers bleeding smoke and flame from its fuselage.

"Oh shite!" Fergus swore. "Flak! Flak! Flak on all sides!"

As he verbally reacted Fegus slid into the pilot's seat and gave the control stick a hard yank, banking left to avoid losing his wing as the flaming jumbo fell out of the sky. All Blazko could do was watch the plane and the hundred or so soldiers she was carrying unnaturally buck and twist in the wind towards his own bird.

"No, no, no," Fergus quietly declared. "Not today!"

The stricken transport plane fell through the aerial convoy without taking any of its sisters with it and looked like it was going to harmlessly crash into the ocean, and most of it did. Except for one wing, that is, which broke off and remained airborne long enough to nick Blazkos' bird. The plane rocked fiercely but remained flying. However there was no time to celebrate their survival.

"Blazkowicz!" Fergus snapped as their plane evened out and took a sharp nose dive towards the glistening sea. "Go back into the flight deck! Clamp the fuel line to engine six! Quickly!"

Blazko leapt to his feet without a word. He grabbed his headset, dropped it into place over his crown, and dashed out of the cockpit, getting a good eyeful of the ball of fire where the Number Six Engine was supposed to be to remind him why he needed to move fast. Behind him the vessel's only passenger, a stick thin teenager barely half his height and dressed in some foppish ensemble more suited to an English Manor than a US Army Air Force cargo plane, was following closely.

 _"Mind the tools in the tools cabinent!"_ Fergus instructed over the radio as the two left the cockpit. _"You'll need some pliers and some baling wire! Hurry up and get it done or we'll lose the whole wing!"_

"I'll get it, captain!" the passenger yelled. "You get to the fire!"

Blazko nodded and ran straight down the metal corridor to the small maintenance hatch at the other end billowing smoke. He dropped to his knees and crawled inside and quickly found the source. The fuel line for Engine Six had sprung a major leak in several places and some spark had light the spraying gas, creating the inferno about to end Blazko's mission before it even began.

"Here, captain!" The passenger thrusted the pliers and wire at him.

Blazko grabbed the offered equipment and rounded nipped the problem in the bud.

 _"Cracking job, lads, but I'm losing altitude,"_ Fergus informed Blazko and his helper as they reemerged onto the flight deck proper. _"Need to drop weight or we'll be ditching hard like! Head for the cargo bay and jettison everything we've got out of the cargo door!"_

"Christ, it never ends does it?" the young man muttered.

"No it doesn't, son," Blazko informed him. "Now let's get to it!"

The two were inside the cargo hold in seconds, knives out and eyeing the cloth straps holding the ammunition, rations, and other supplies their plane was carrying still with a murderous intent in their eyes.

 _"Hold fast, I'm cranking up the cargo hump!"_ Fergus informed them as the ramp creaked open. _"Right! Now cut the crates loose, boyos!"_

The first palates were cut loose in a heartbeat and sliding their way out the open door into the churning spray created as the belly of the plane scraped along the surface.

 _"Jesus Mary Joseph!"_ Fergus screamed into the mic. _"We're scraping the surface! Hurry it up down there!"_

"Working on it!" Blazko barked back as he cut loose a jeep. It and the palate of oil drums sitting opposite were quickly dragged away. He made for the last one but was stopped when his partner grabbed his knife hand before he could slash the straps.

"No! Wait!" the teenager ordered. He pointed at one of the objects sitting atop the last palate. "Grab that!"

Considering the thing was likely only a few pounds heavy at most and their plane was about to become a submarine, Blazko decided not to argue and grabbed the offending item. While it wasn't particularly heavy the object was large and its lower half hit the deck with a thud that was barely audible over the engines and the churning surf. As it did the teenager slashed the straps and the last palette fell out the back.

 _"Grand, grand!"_ an infinitely more relaxed Fergus practically sang. _"We're climbing now. Good work boys, now get back to the cockpit sharpish!"_

"I'll take that," the teenager declared, reaching for the precious object in BJ's hands, which BJ was quite happy to turn over. As the boy examined it for damage Blazko found himself wondering not for the first time why the OSA Director had decided to saddle him with a teenaged civilian on the most important mission of the war, and why he told him to protect and guard both the kid and the coffin he was bringing along like his life depended on it. Which it did according to the Director. Assistant Director Stone wasn't much better.

"Look BJ," he replied after a brief but harsh grilling on the fields of RAF Kinloss. "If I knew I would tell you, but I don't. What I do know is that OSA and Allied Command want Mister Dornez here," he gestured at the teenage boy at his side, "and that coffin aboard Vulture One before you take off. I don't know why they're sending this kid with you or the box, but they act like if they don't we're all going to die and lose the war. Now make the brass happy and get your cargo secured."

An explosion from just above brought BJ back to the present. A new hole had just been blasted into the hull big enough for even Blazko's muscle bound body could fit through with ease.

 _"Are you both all right back there?"_

"We're fine, Fergus," Blazko replied. "What was that? More flak?"

 _"Yep,"_ Fergus confirmed, _"coming straight from Deathshead's compound. Better get back here right quick lads."_

"I'm on my way," Blazko affirmed, rushing up the aluminum staircase and dashing towards the cockpit in time for the Luftwaffe's greeting. As Mustang pilots and turret gunners tangled with Horten Ho 229s powered by stolen Da'at Yichud technology, Walter C. Dornez lovingly stroked the coffin in his hands, giggling a mad laugh.

"Almost there, my friend," the fifteen year old vampire hunter and butler assured it. "Almost there."

While still asleep the monster inside the black wooden box began to stir, awakened by the screaming of men and the chatter of a hundred machine guns firing in unison. Oh yes, he was almost there, and when he arrived all of hell would sing as he worked his bloody trade among his master's enemies.


	2. Chapter 2

Deathshead's Compound

Operation Watchtower +07 Minutes

Commander Friedrich Keller was not a weak man by any imagination of the phrase. You didn't get into the SS Special Projects Division by being anything but a model soldier who ate shrapnel and shat bullets. That said, watching General Strasse work made him… _queasy_. That is not to say he got sick at the sight of blood. Over the course of his service to the Reich Keller had seen many grizzly sights, like a pack of panzerhund rip a platoon of Russian soldiers apart or tossed a grenade to turn a foxhole full of soldiers into a bloody meat pit. He'd witnessed the brutal and messy violence of war, but this was different. This was much worse.

Like an old man packaging a present for his grandchildren, Wilhelm Strasse finished scooping the brains, eyes, and internal organs out of his latest specimen's body, blissfully expired by now, and into clear glass jars. As soon as the glasses were labeled the general left the operating theater for the wash room, Commander Keller in tow at a respectful distance.

"What can I do for you, Friedrich?" the old scientist asked as he washed the blood from his gloves, smiling softly with a kind tone that seemed completely at odds with the disemboweling he'd just carried out.

"General, we've detected an Allied air fleet approaching the island," Keller reported quickly. "They'll be here in less than ten minutes."

"Impossible," Strasse declared with a dismissive gesture, voice still as cordial and harmless as ever. "No plane can get within a hundred miles without getting past the kriegsmarine."

"I know, General, but two different patrols and a training squadron testing the new jet fighters all independently reported visual contact with a force of an estimated sixty transport planes that match the descriptions of the new Allied super plane we've been hearing about escorted by two squadrons of American P-51 Mustangs, and they will be on us in minutes."

Strasse grew a broad smile as he hosed down his surgical gown. "So our generous benefactors have chosen a side at last. They probably gave the Americans those planes and the radar jamming technology that allowed them to sneak up on me. That's the only explanation. Even I haven't been able to crack those particular schematics yet."

Keller found himself flabbergasted at his commander's jovial nature at such grave implications. This was more than jamming. This assault force had been all but invisible until the Kriegsmarine light cruiser Nürnberg's spotters heard and saw them flying over their heads! If hadn't heard the reports himself Keller would have dismissed it as drunk sailors telling fibs to pass the time. It just seemed impossible.

Then again, in the last year alone Keller had seen weak and feeble men turned into flesh-and-steel juggernaughts capable of ripping apart tanks with their bare hands, autonomous war machines ranging from the fearsome and animalistic panzerhunds to building-sized siege engines like the Baltic Eye, and if rumors were true the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe were collaborating on a project to create a zeppelin capable of serving as both an aerial battleship and intercontinental transport for an entire battalion of paratroopers, so who was he to declare what was impossible and what was not?

"General, we need to get you to the bunker," Keller pressed. "The enemy will be on us in moments."

Strasse gave his subordinate an amused smirk that was made terrifying by the weathered line and scars that covered his cheeks. "Hide? My dear boy, why would I hide?"

"The Allies are here to kill you, my general," Keller informed him. "This is the operation they've been building up to all year! Three different elite paratrooper regiments are about to arrive and stop your research before you make us completely invincible!"

Deathshead chuckled. "Before? My boy, _I have already made us invincible!_ The Russians are broken. Britain burns day and night as our rockets bomb their country into ruin. The American navy and it's precious aircraft carriers are target practice for our U-boats. This war has been won! What this is is the last dying gasps of the old world as we take our rightful place as the master race of Earth."

"General, please," Keller pleaded. "Even if this is a suicide assault it is a determined one. They have elite troops to rival your personal commandos and have technology provided by the Da'at Yichud itself! I beg you to please retreat to your personal bunker until we can secure the compound and exterminate these invaders."

"I'm sorry, Friedrich, but I cannot," He addressed the exasperated SS commander like an overprotective son fussing over his father. "I must operate while my specimens are fresh! If I wait they will go bad and I will have to start all over again!"

Keller suppressed an annoyed grunt. The General was in one of his moods, and once that happened nothing short of the Furher was going to snap him out until his work was finished. "Then at least allow me to station a squad of super soldiers to protect you."

Strasse breathed a frustrated sigh. "As you wish, Commander."

Keller breathed a relieved sigh. "Thank you, General. I will have them present in but a moment. If you would excuse me."

"Of course, of course." Strasse made a dismissive gesture. "Go and push back the invaders for the Reich. Have any survivors sent to my laboratory immediately."

"Of course, my general." Keller saluted and fast walked out, intending to send much more than one supersoldaten team to protect the architect of the Fatherland's war machine. As soon as Keller left Strasse was along again, but only for a moment.

"He is right, you know. The Americans and British are sending their very best to kill you, Herr Strasse."

Strasse glanced at the young boy that had miraculously appeared by his side. The lad seemed of good Aryan stock. Healthy, blonde hair, and a smart Hitler Youth uniform. Though what ruined that was the cheerfully malevolent purple eyes and the large cat ears sprouting from his head.

"He worries too much," Strasse replied. "They are sending their men into a charnel house. They will die and serve the glory of the Reich by helping refine my creations. But I doubt you share his concern for my health."

"You wound my pride, General!" Warrant Officer Schrodinger declared with theatrical mock. "I assure you, your death would be such a great blow to the Reich that even the Major would be brought to tears!"

"Tears of laughter, perhaps," Strasse mused aloud. "Now, why are you here?"

"My commanding officer has bid me pass on some interesting bits of intelligence to you in the hope that you heed Herr Keller's advice."

"And that is?"

"Well, while I was snooping around Allied High Command I happened to overhear a conversation between General Eisenhower and Director Gordon of the OSA. It appears that they are sending two of their best agents to personally see you dead. One is an American ranger captain, currently seconded to the 101st Airborne Division, named William J. Blazkowicz."

"I remember Captain Blazkowicz," Strasse nodded with a knowing smile. "The man who burned Isenstadt to the ground and put Viktor Zetta out of my misery. If I find him alive I must remember to thank him for that. Who's the other agent? Let me guess, Captain Rogers?"

Schrodinger shook his head. "A young civilian known as Walter C. Dornez, butler and assassin in service of the Hellsing Manor. Interestingly, they've also sent in one of the Allied Army's 'Omega Weapons.' Specifically, something referred to as Abraham's Black Box."

Strasse's smile stretched as wide as it could go.

"So," he hissed with obvious joy, "Doctor Hellsing's little pet vampire is coming to eat me. Excellent."

"I am glad to see you've been paying attention to my briefings, General!" the cat-boy preened. "Now, would you allow me to evacuate you to Warsaw?"

"What? No! Why would I run when my enemies are so kind as to send their very best into my laboratories?"

Schrodinger pretended to think for a moment, casting eyes toward the ceiling and planting a gloved index finger on his chin. "Well, there is the fact that the last time Abraham's Black Box was used the entire Atlantic Wall fell in a day. And then before that, the Black Box was used to turn the Eastern Front from a steady advance into a route. As I recall it was only your mechanical puppies that kept the Red Army from advancing straight to Berlin."

Strasse nodded. "All true, but I am not afraid of the vampire king. Our friends who helped us build all this-" he made a sweeping gesture around the room, at the advanced medical equipment that made his surgery the envy of all doctors everywhere and the technological wonder weapons that guarded his fortress beyond "-also had extensive research on the truly occult. I am confident that when Hellsing's monster arrives, I will have it under my scalpel before the day is out."

"That is a pretty big boast, even for you, general!" Schrodinger commented. "Are you sure you will be able to back it up?"

"Let me put it to you this way, child. When I report my victory to Berlin, your Major would happily trade you for a chance to study the greatest vampire ever to live. And then I will get to see how _you_ tick."

Schrodinger laughed. "We will see, Herr Strasse. We will see."

"Laugh all you want, boy," General Totenkopf warned the artificial monster. "You might be named after the impossible cat, but I know for a fact you are not immortal. Mortal hands made you, and once I find out how I will mass produce it and give the Reich its greatest weapon. A weapon that will make the atomic bomb look like a pitiful one hundred pounder."

Schrodinger shrugged. "Well, I wish you best of luck with that, General. If you would excuse me, I'm going to find a nice cliff or terrace to watch the battle from. Good day, Herr Strasse."

The cat-boy gave a respectful bow and left in the same direction as Keller had just a few moments before. Though unlike Keller he proceeded to teleport straight to the roof of the tallest tower of the compound, just in time for the first flaming Allied transport planes to plow into the beaches, destroying most of the minefields in the process but stopping well short of the trenches. Schrodinger got himself comfortable and settled in for a spectacle, looking forward with great anticipation for when Alucard showed himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Deathshead's Island – The Beaches

Operation Watchtower +13 Minutes

The sound of automatic gunfire and exploding mortar shells were the first sounds to assault Walter's senses as consciousness returned to him. They fueled his brain's crash restart and set it into overdrive. Walter's eyes shot open. He was lying on his back, and sitting up revealed he was inside the wreckage of a transport plane surrounded by British and American paratroopers hugging the walls and trying not to be seen.

Memories flooded back to him as he took in his surroundings. He'd stopped Captain Blazkowicz from dumping Alucard into the Baltic. There was a battle with german experimental fighters. The plane had to be abandoned- No, it was still in flight but a troop transport lost its pilot, so that magnificent bastard Fergus decided to jump out onto the wing of Condor Nine and rolled he was close enough for the passengers could grab him, as his own bird was now lacking cargo and didn't carry any troops beside him, Blazko, and Alucard. Walter smiled. Captain Blazkowicz had been so insistent that he leave Alucard's palace behind. He enjoyed making him eat crow and amazing the paratroopers when he leap out the door and rode the coffin like it was a sled as it flew straight to Condor Nine's rear side door.

"Wyatt, turn off the light! Turn it off!"

"Yes, sir!"

A mechanical roar and the crash of steel breaking glass turned Walter's head. Outside the wreckage he saw a hulking metal monster straight from Hell itself trying to get at him and the others. Survival instincts and training took over. He grabbed his gloves from their carry case and slipped them on. As he did this he assessed the tactical situation. The enemy outside was a Panzerhund. Dangerous in the open but for some reason limited to animalistic behavior, and a rather dim one considering it was stalking outside and missing the large obvious hole where the cockpit used to be. Armor was resistant to most small arms, and likely his razor wire web. Heavy weapons were needed.

A glance around the refuge showed no machine guns or bazookas. Or Alucard's coffin for that matter.

Shit.

"Alright lads," Reid addressed the men. "Captain Blazko's going to circle around and get to a gun turret on a wreck nearby. It's got a killer field of view of this area and those machine guns are going to turn the hell beast scratching at our asses into a scrap yard. So sit tight and for his majesty's sake don't do anything stupid."

He looked at Walter.

"You alright boy?"

"I'm fine," Walter informed him. "Where's the coffin?"

"Probably at the bottom of the sea with the rest of the plane."

Walter's face blanched. "We need to find it. Now."

"Sonny, I don't care why you want that box so bloody bad, but we're going to be getting our own asses either chewed by some nazi robo-dog or turned into pin cushions if we go out there."

Walter gave an exasperated growl. "You don't understand. We need to get it or we're all dead. Regardless if Captain Blazkowicz takes out the panzerhunds."

"Oh really? I don't suppose you have a battalion of tanks in there would you?"

"Better."

"It'd better be."

"It's a vampire."

Everyone in the wreck stared at Walter, for a moment completely ignoring the storm of bullets and armored hell beasts outside.

"A vampire?" Fergus repeated, his disbelief mirrored in the small squad of paratroopers surrounding them.

Walter nodded. "A king of vampire, to be exact. We wake him up and this fortress will be ours before noon and Deathshead a memory of a nightmare."

Fergus seemed like he was going to contest this, but after watching the boy fly across on the blasted thing he couldn't. "Well, kid. It don't matter. We'll never find it in that mess. Best we can do that and press on. Hope for the best."

Walter was about to retort, but the Nazis helped make a better case when a great metal foot slammed into the ground nearby. One of the paratroopers, Wyatt if Walter remembered corrected, looked out the nearest hole and gaped.

"Holy moly!" he cried. "Look at the size of that thing!"

Everyone scrambled to get a better look at the Baltic Eye as it stomped across the battlefield, shooting lightning at pockets of resistance that made themselves known. Walter took the offered help, inadvertent though it was, and ran with it.

"You can't take that down, Mister Reid," Walter pressed. "Nothing you've got can do more than chip the paint, and the Nazis are going to have a lot worse in store if we somehow make it off this beach. We need that coffin and the vampire inside. Otherwise we lose the war and the Nazis destroy everything that's good in the world."

Fergus gritted his teeth at the boy, head turning to face the stomper as it passed by. Walter could see it in the Scotsman's eyes. He was breaking down: An understandable response in situations like this. When confronted with such overwhelming odds it was only natural to for a soldier to place his hopes in his righteousness of cause or his steel, and when that failed appeal to the divine, or the demonic in this case.

The familiar rattle of twelve browning machine guns firing in unison brought the survivors' attentions back to the threat outside. The panzerhund stalking them was drowned in a sea of high caliber armor piercing-high explosive munitions. The nazi death machine exploded in a spectacular shower of sparks and twisted metal, and was soon joined by its pack mates.

"Everyone out of the plane!" Fergus ordered. "Move it ya lazy sods!"

The team scrambled out. From his turrer perch Blazko climbed out and quickly traversed the distance between.

"You saved us, Captain Blazkowicz, sir!" Wyatt screamed as the captain approached.

"It was my pleasure, Private," Blazko nodded with a warm smile. He glanced at Walter. "You doing alright, kid?"

"I'm fine, Captain," Walter returned. "Have you seen the coffin?"

Blazko nodded and gestured with a thumb towards the wrecked plane he was just sitting in. "Resting at the bottom of the shoreline back yonder, near the wreck."

"Good. Let's go get it and get this mess over with."

Walter started walking towards the bullet ridden hulk but was stopped by a firm, meaty hand on his shoulder.

"Whoa there, cowboy, where do you think you're going?" Blazko asked.

"To get the coffin," Walter informed him.

"Nuh uh. No way. That way's a good way to get dead, and I ain't letting a child die on my watch. Not for a blasted box."

Walter felt the urge to bite back over assuming he was defenseless just because he hadn't started shaving yet, but held back. "You were also told to keep an eye on that box. The Assistant Director's exact words were to protect it like your life depended on it."

"He also said the same for you."

"Blazko," Fergus spoke up. "I hate to say it but I got the nigglin' feeling the kid's right. I'll send him and Wyatt to go fish it outa the drink. In the meantime, we've got a castle to storm."

BJ was going to object about sending an able bodied trooper off the line to retrieve a box from the seal, but like Fergus he got the feeling there was more to meet the coffin than what met the eye. Compounding that was years of experience dealing with the Nazis and their fetish for the occult.

"Alright, Mr. Dornez. Get your box," he sighed. "But you listen to Private Wyatt. If he tells you to duck, you duck, and don't go running off without him."

"Yes, sir." Walter nodded.

"Good. Now get going before I change my mind."

Walter grew a wide, toothy grin. "Will do, Captain. Don't wait up. We'll catch up to you once we release my friend."

Blazko sighed as the boy and Wyatt, who himself was pretty much a boy at heart considering his freakout when Condor Nine's pilot died, ran off towards the wreck. He wondered if he was sending those boys off to their deaths. This beach was one big killzone. Lots of open ground, machine guns nests and mortars shooting death everywhere. The whole squad was going to have a hard time getting out of this mess. Those two by themselves were going to die.

Fergus pressed a SMG, nicknamed the Chicago Deuce for basically being a tommy gun modified to fire rifle rounds and a longer barrel to catch up with the Nazis in infantry small arms, and started talking fast. "Alright, Blazko. I've got a plan to get the squad out of here and mobile by the time those boys get back from their fishin' trip."

Blazko grabbed a mag from his webbing as Fergus explained his plan, checked it to make sure it still had rounds, and slammed it into the receiver. Priming the rack as the slap-dash squad moved in to cover him, Captain BJ Blazkowicz charged head first into hell once again for God and country.

As Blazko did what he did best Wyatt and Walter were crawling into the turret he'd just occupied. Wyatt himself settled into the gunner seat and looked back at his charge.

"Alright, kid. Looks like there aren't any more of those metal dogs around. You go take a look for your box and I'll watch our backs."

Walter nodded and, after making sure there was no dangerous debris in the way, jumped into the water. As expected the it was freezing cold but Walter suffered gladly. A few minutes longer and all their prayers would be answered. He dove deeper and eventually found the seabed. Sure enough, just a ways away was the coffin. It was partially buried in the sand but Walter, young as he was, was at the peak of training and human ability and then some. It was practically trivial for him to drag it out of the muck and up the ladder.

Wyatt heard Walter's gasp for fresh air and turned to watch the teenager, all one hundred pounds soaking wet (literally) of him, drag both himself and the coffin out of the water.

"Wow," was all he could say.

"Pick up your jaw and help me up," Walter growled. For all his enhancements he still had the body of a fourteen year old, and gravity was much harsher when there wasn't a nice wet medium helping mitigate its influence. The two placed the box on the small stretch of metal that served as a stepping spot for the gunner to reach his post.

"C'mon, Alucard," Walter whispered to it, rubbing the lid. "Time to wake up."

While he was serrinating the sleeping vampire, Wyatt marveled at how miraculously untouched and undamaged despite all of the punishment inflicted on it. He noticed the cross near the head and the text below.

"Here Lies the No-Life King," he recited. "The Bird of Hermes is my Name. Eating my Wings to Keep me Tame."

The coffin popped open like a can of bean after the seal was broken, sending Wyatt into the wall in a start.

"Ah hah ha! Yes!" Walter cheered. "Good morning, Alucard! We've missed you, my friend. The enemy is at the gate and he's howling for blood!"

 _"Well then,"_ a raspy voice echoed from the coffin. _"Let us quench their thirst, shall we?"_


End file.
